2017 Day 25 – No Oksijan.

We can’t breathe.

I am in the cantenar.
I am seven.
I want to be eight.
I want to be safe.

We can’t breathe.

My little boy is dead.
He was six.
He will never be seven.
His baby sister
Is safe, for now at least.

We can’t breathe.

I am thirty-five
But I look older.
The little girl
Is two, I think.
There are seventy-one of us here,
Packed in like battery hens
In the ‘Honest Chicken’ truck.
I do not think we will get older.

We can’t breathe.
No oksijan.

Notes: The prompt was to write a poem that explores a small, defined space.  This is probably not what was meant, but it was inspired by this story and this story among others.

Advertisements

One response

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s